


Brooklyn Babes' Buns and Cakes

by ConsultingFangirl (DestinyWolfe)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A little angst, AU, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Art, Artist Steve Rogers, Baker Bucky Barnes, Bakery AU, Baking, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay James "Bucky" Barnes, Gay Love, Girls in Love, Lesbians, Soulmates, Stevie Rogers - Freeform, True Love, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/ConsultingFangirl
Summary: Stevie Rogers moves back to Brooklyn after her mother's death. There, she meets baker-slash-small-business-owner Bucky Barnes, owner of Red Star Bakery. Between Stevie's gluten allergy (which means that she ends up hiding most of the baked goods she buys from Bucky in a mini-fridge in her hotel room) and Bucky's struggles to keep her business afloat, life isn't always a smooth downhill ride. Against all odds, they fall in love anyway.(Fem!Stucky Bakery AU. As always, I own nothing. I'm just messing with these characters for my own amusement.)





	Brooklyn Babes' Buns and Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> This has been edited once (by me), so all mistakes are my own. I had a ton of fun writing this, and I hope y'all enjoy it, too! :)

**Brooklyn Babes' Buns and Cakes**

When Stevie Rogers moved back to her old Brooklyn neighborhood after an unexpected and ultimately temporary attempt to relocate to Washington, D.C. to be closer to her ailing mother, she was told that the dilapidated apartment building that had once been her home (a run-down old place full of cockroaches and mice and God knows what else) had been torn down. Unable to believe that the place was gone, she took a taxi to the street corner a block from where the apartment complex had been and got out to see for herself. 

It wasn’t a lie. The building was gone. Torn down years ago, most likely. There was no sign that it had ever existed at all. In its place, tiny and quaint between two seven-floor red brick complexes, was a brand-new café. At least it _looked_ like a café. What other venue could get away with being so tiny? 

Curious and a little bit irritated that her old home had been torn down for the sake of such a miniscule structure, Stevie strode down the sidewalk (also brand-new—apparently the whole street had gotten a makeover) and paused in front of the café. 

_Red Star Bakery,_ read a swinging sign over the elegantly-carved cherry-wood door. So not a bakery then. Stevie took a step closer. Other than the sign and the door, Stevie couldn’t help but think that the building was lacking in elegance and flare. But then again, she was an artist. She tended to notice these things more than the average passer-by. That being said, the building really didn’t have much character. The walls had been painted an off-white. The trim was bare, as if the owner hadn’t bothered to deal with it before opening shop. The hanging flower pots and flower beds sitting beneath three unpolished glass windows were full of untended dirt and nothing else. 

Stevie went up to the door and pulled on the handle. The door didn’t budge. She frowned, and tried again, throwing her not-inconsiderable strength into it. With a reluctant groan, the door swung out on rusted hinges. Stevie stepped inside.

Immediately, the smell of freshly-baked goods hit her. She paused, intoxicated and dizzy with it. She closed her eyes and inhaled deep. Fresh-baked pastry, the smell of brewing coffee, and the sweet, overpowering scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air. She let the door creak closed behind her, standing just over the threshold. 

“Hey, wait! We’re not open yet; you can’t be in here!” 

Stevie blinked her eyes open as a rough female voice sounded from behind the counter. She looked up, ready to apologize, but her words caught somewhere between her heart and her tongue. There, leaning on her elbows with raised eyebrows and a tilt to her head, was the most beautiful woman Stevie had ever seen. She had dark hair, slightly wavy, pulled up in a knot at the back of her head. She was wearing a black apron with a red star on the chest; it was dusted with what Stevie assumed was flour or powdered sugar. But then again, Stevie had heard of less-than-legal operations taking place in this neighborhood’s restaurants and cafes. For all she knew (and based on the abrupt and impolite way that this beautiful girl had addressed her) the white dust might not be quite so innocent after all.

The girl at the counter sighed when Stevie didn’t answer right away. Turning toward the door labeled _Kitchen_ , she shouted, “Hey, Nat! Ask Clint if he forgot to flip the _Closed_ sign to _Open_ last night. And if he did, throw some flour in his face for me, would you?”

A muffled response came from the back. Seemingly satisfied, the dark-haired girl with the flour-dusted apron turned back to face Stevie. “Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t’ve been so abrupt. But uh, we don’t open ‘till nine on Saturdays.” She shrugged. “Some of us—” she threw another dirty look over her shoulder at the kitchendoor, “—can’t get up earlier than eight on weekends to save their damn lives.” She flashed Stevie a breathtakingly-bright grin. Stevie’s heart jump behind her ribs.

Stevie returned a more hesitant smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The girl behind the counter shrugged one shoulder. “It said _Open._ You were within your rights. So, y’know, if you want me to get you anything—something to eat, or drink—I’d be more than happy.”

Stevie shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to bother you,” she said sincerely.

The other girl grinned that charming grin. “You wouldn’t be bothering me,” she said. “It’d be my pleasure, trust me.”

And that was all it took to convince Stevie to stay. It was only after she’d ordered a cappuccino, a blueberry scone, and a strawberry tart that she remembered her gluten allergy. Too embarrassed to bring it up at this point, she politely smiled as the girl behind the counter took down her order, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

“And what name should I put on that order?” she asked Stevie.

Stevie’s heart jumped again. Clearly, since she was the only customer in the place, there was no reason for this beautiful girl to ask her that. Not unless… 

She shook her head before her thoughts could meander any farther down that dangerous path. Smiling, she said, “Stevie.”

The brown-haired girl nodded. “Great.” She scribbled something on a 12-ounce paper coffee cup. 

Stevie waited, looking around at the less-than-exciting décor (or lack thereof) and tables with their dented chairs and cloth-less surfaces, until the girl in the apron called her name. With another polite smile, Stevie took the coffee and two bags of baked goods she’d ordered.

“There y’go,” said the dark-haired girl. 

Stevie looked down at the rough but legible scribble on the front of her cup. “You spelled my name right,” she said, with a smile.

The brown-haired girl returned her smile with a glowing grin. “Perfect,” she said.

Without thinking, Stevie said, “You, too.” Immediately, she felt her face flush bright pink. Turning away, she fought the urge to drop her coffee and hide behind the nearest table. “I mean, thanks,” she mumbled, pretending to be preoccupied with adding sugar to her coffee.

The girl behind the counter laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Come back anytime you want, Stevie.”

Stevie, too flustered to form a coherent reply out of fear of making an awkward situation worse, gave the brown-haired girl a nod, a slightly nervous smile, and walked out of the bakery and back into the watery light of mid-morning. 

It wasn’t until she got back to her hotel and went to throw out her cup that she realized that the girl from the bakery had written her name on the bottom of the cup. 

_The name’s Barnes,_ the message said. _Bucky Barnes._ Next to it was a poorly-drawn picture of James Bond holding an egg whisk in place of a gun.

After that, Stevie went back every morning for a coffee and whatever baked goods Bucky had available. Over the course of two weeks, she ordered everything: pies, shortbread, carrot cake, pecan loafs, gingerbread, cupcakes, and cookies of all shapes, flavors, and sizes. She pretended to nibble at them while she sat in the bakery, talking to Bucky (who, it turned out, had lived in the same neighborhood as Stevie growing up and had attended the same elementary school) while Bucky saw to the needs of her few customers. After what seemed like a reasonable amount of time, Stevie would stand up, thank Bucky for the goods, and return to her hotel room. 

By week three, the hotel room minifridge was full to bursting with baked goods that Stevie couldn’t bear to throw away.

On the twenty-fifth day since their first meeting (not that Stevie was counting or anything), Bucky asked Stevie if she wanted to meet up for dinner next Saturday night. Caught off-guard, Stevie managed to get out a not-so-eloquent (but very exuberant) “ _YES.”_ Bucky grinned that charming grin, winked at Stevie, and turned back to the counter to take down the orders of the first customers to come in since Stevie arrived at opening time.

They met at a fancy seafood restaurant with a bay-side view. A sprawling view of New York City (or a small portion of it, at least) was visible across the water. As an impeccably-dressed waiter with white gloves and a curled mustache led Stevie and Bucky to their table for two, Stevie couldn’t help but wonder how many cookies and pies Bucky had had to sell to afford eating out at such an upscale place.

They took their seats across from each other. Bucky, as always, put her elbows on the table and leaned in toward Stevie as she talked animatedly about some the latest crazy shit she, Nat, and Clint had gotten up to last Friday Night. Stevie, however, hardly heard a word Bucky said. She was caught up in the smaller, quieter things: the way the last light of evening, slanting in between distant skyscrapers that shimmered like cut crystal, caught in Bucky’s eyes and turned them to stormy seas of flickering passion. The way Bucky’s mouth slanted mischievously when she described who she’d pulled Clint out of some bar, the two of them sporting busted lips and bruised knuckles and dropped his ass him off at Nat’s place for the rest of the night as punishment. _Not that that’s any kind of punishment for those two,_ she added. She laughed, and Stevie’s heart swelled with the sound. 

Bucky finished her story, and the waiter arrived to take their orders. The waiter scribbled down their choices, nodding his approval, and strode away toward the kitchens at the back of the restaurant.

“So.” Bucky leaned in closer. She had a sparkle in her eyes, the kind that promised trouble. Stevie knew that look well: she’d seen it in herself every time she looked in the mirror. And in her mother’s eyes, too, God rest her soul. 

“So?” Stevie prompted when Bucky didn’t immediately continue. “So, what?’

“So how about dessert?” Bucky said. “You wanna share something?”

Stevie laughed. “Listen to you,” she said, “goin’ on about dessert when we haven’t even had our first course.”

Bucky grinned. “Well?”

Stevie gave in with a smile and a shake of her head. “Sure,” she said. “What were you thinking?”

“Pie,” said Bucky without missing a beat. “Or cobbler. They’ve got great cobbler here.” She paused, and then, with a slight frown, she added, “Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

Stevie nodded. “Sure,” she said. “Perfect.”

“You, too,” Bucky said, smirking.

Stevie kicked her under the table. “You ever gonna let that go?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bucky, and laughed. Stevie’s heart jolted. For a moment, she wondered if Bucky had any idea just how incredibly, frustratingly, amazingly charming she was.

The waiter returned half a minute later with their food. They talked all through the main course, sharing stories about what it was like growing up in their neighborhood. They swapped gossip about their classmates and what they were up to now. While they talked, the sun set steadily to the west, casting its last golden light over the sparkling waters of the bay. 

They ended up ordering five desserts. Two kinds of pie (blueberry and pecan), a Bailey’s Irish Cream mousse, a chocolate lava cake, and an enormous chocolate chip cookie with vanilla ice cream and sprinkles. Bucky ate most of it, and Stevie let her. Stevie was careful not to eat any of the pie crust or the cookie. She scraped the chocolate icing off the cake and ate the ice cream and pie filling instead.

“So,” said Bucky, pulling out her wallet as the waiter brought around a box for the remaining dessert, “whadaya think, Stevie? Is their pie as good as my pie?”

Stevie’s heart lurched. Her mouth went dry for a moment. She swallowed, and then shook her head. Forcing a casual smile, she said, “’Course not, Buck. You’re the best baker in all of Brooklyn. Thought we’d already established that.”

Bucky grinned, basking in the praise. “That’s what I thought,” she said with bravado. She handed her credit card to the waiter, who gave her a polite nod and disappeared.

“Y’know,” said Stevie, clearing her throat, “I can pay for my half, if you want.” This wasn’t entirely true—as an aspiring artist who’d just spent most of her savings trying to sell an expensive apartment in D.C. and paying for her mother’s funeral, she wasn’t in any position to pay for anything at all. But Stevie was a stubborn as her mother had been. And as fiercely independent. 

Bucky shook her head with vehemence. “No way,” she said. “This is my treat. I won’t let you pay a cent, you hear me, Rogers?”

Stevie smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “With a voice like yours, I bet everyone in Brooklyn can hear you.”

Grinning, Bucky kicked her under the table.

Once the bill was payed and the dishes cleared away, they made their way out onto the docks beside the bay. They walked down the boardwalk half a foot apart, their hands occasionally brushing. Every time they did, Stevie’s heart jolted, and her mouth went dry. Attraction ran through her veins like electricity through a web of wires.

“This was really nice,” said Bucky when they reached the end of the boardwalk. She leaned on the rail, dark hair falling down around her shoulders like a cascade of chocolate syrup. “If you want—if you had a good time, I mean—we should do it again some time.”

Stevie tried to tamp down the overwhelming excitement that bubbled up in her chest at the thought of spending more time with Bucky outside of the bakery. “Sure,” she said. “But if you keep spending all your money on other peoples’ pies, Buck, you’re gonna put yourself outta business.”

Stevie expected Bucky to laugh. Instead, she was met with an almost desperate silence. Bucky sighed. She looked down at her watch, then out over the bay. There was a distant, faraway look in her stormy eyes. “We should get goin’,” she said. She put her hands in the pockets of her denim jacket, turning back the way they’d come. “Sun’s down, and I’ve got work in the morning.”

“Me, too,” said Stevie. Which wasn’t a lie—she had a commission she was working on that was supposed to be done by Monday morning. 

They walked together back to the bus stop, and sat next to each other on the ride back to their neighborhood. Bucky said goodbye first, waving once before turning on her heel and half-jogging away down the street. Stevie stood still, watching her go until the darkness swallowed her whole.

Stevie wasn’t entirely sure how Bucky had figured out where her hotel room was, but when she heard the knock on her door at three in the morning on a Sunday, she couldn’t think of anyone else it could be. Still in her pajamas, bleary with unfinished sleep, she got up off the couch (she’d fallen asleep with a pencil in her hand and a sketch pad on her lap) and pulled the door open.

Bucky looked a mess. Her hair, usually glossy and brushed, was tangled and wet from the storm raging outside. Her jacket was sopping wet and dripping on the ugly, faded hotel carpeting. There were dark shadows under her eyes. Her voice shook slightly as she asked, “Can I come in?”

Stevie stepped back, holding the door open wide. “’Course, Buck.” She stood for a moment, struggling to find a tactful way to ask what she wanted to ask. Unfortunately, she wasn’t a very tactful person. Especially not when it came to Bucky. “So,” she said, “rough night?”

Bucky laughed humorlessly. She shook her head, droplets of water spinning out in arcs. She stepped through the door; Stevie closed it behind her. “Yeah,” Bucky croaked, deflated and defeated. “Something like that.”

Stevie headed for the kitchen. She put water in a cup and put it in the microwave (much faster and more efficient than boiling a whole pot of water for one cup of tea) and returned to the main room. Bucky was still standing, wet and a little awkward, by the door. Stevie jerked her head toward the couch. “You wanna sit?”

Bucky made a face. “I’ll ruin the upholstery.”

“Nah,” said Stevie. “That upholstery is so old only historians would care what happens to it.”

Bucky barked a laugh. She sat down on the couch, tucking her knees up to her chest. Sighing, she pushed her sopping hair away from her pale face. She looked up at the clock on the wall, which now read 3:13AM. “Damn,” she said. “Sorry I woke you up. And—” she added, pointing an accusatory finger in Stevie’s direction, “don’t you dare try ‘n’ say you were already up.”

Stevie shrugged. “Who cares,” she said. “It’s Sunday. I can sleep all afternoon if I want.”

Bucky laughed again. Stevie’s heart soared at the sound. Already, her friend was looking much better than she had just minutes before. As far as Stevie was concerned, that was a victory of epic proportions. 

The microwave beeped. Stevie strode back into the kitchen and pulled out the cup of boiling water. She dropped half a handful of fresh mint tea leaves (harvested from the tiny indoor potted herb garden she kept on the windowsill) into a teaball and let it steep.

“Hey,” came Bucky’s voice from the living room. “Are these yours?”

Stevie walked back out to the couch and handed Bucky the cup of mint tea. It was then that she saw her sketchbook lying open on the coffee table, exposed for all (or just Bucky, but did anyone else matter?) to see. Flushing with embarrassment, Stevie tried to grab the sketchbook. Bucky swatted her hand away. 

“Hey, these are good!” Bucky said. “You mind if I look at the rest?”

With a sigh, Stevie gave in. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t get water all over it. I _will_ smother you with a pillow if you do. So help me God.” Her hands tingled with nerves. Her cheeks remained hot and pink.

Bucky smiled at her, and that was enough. Carefully drying the hand not holding her tea, Bucky peeled back each page of the book as if examining some fragile, sacred ancient text. She made noises of appreciation at each one, pausing to examine each fine stroke of graphite on cheap paper. “These are fucking beautiful,” Bucky said. “Are these real places?”

Stevie blinked. “Uh, yeah,” she said, “they’re places I saw in Europe. My mom, she took me on a trip when I was a kid. We went everywhere. France, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Hungary, Sweden, Ireland…” She trailed off. The words stuck in her throat. She brushed a hand over her eyes. Forcing a smile, she added, “There’re so many cute bakeries and shops in Europe, Buck. You’d love it.”

Bucky smiled. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice was strangely soft. Careful. Different from the brass, charming, carefree tone Stevie had come to expect from her. “Bet I would.”

They sat for a few minutes in silence. Bucky sipped her tea, and Stevie went back to shading in her latest sketch. When the clock struck 3:30AM, Bucky got up. She offered Stevie her empty tea mug. “Thanks, Stevie,” she said. And then, unexpectedly, she leaned in and kissed Stevie on the cheek. Pulling back, she said, with a mischievous smile, “That’s how they say goodnight in Europe, right?”

Stevie shook her head, grinning like an idiot. “You think you’re so damn cute, don’t you, Buck?”

“I don’t _think_ it, I _know_ it,” said Bucky, and headed for the door. Straightening her jacket, she twisted the door knob, pulled open the door, and stepped out into the hall. She looked over her shoulder at Stevie as she went. “Well,” she said, “I guess you get about twenty pies on the house for putting up with this shit. You’re a real friend, you know that?”

Stevie waved her off. She tried not to feel disappointed by the word _friend._ “Whatever, Barnes. Get your ass to bed; you look like shit.”

Bucky smirked. “You keep tellin’ yourself that, Rogers,” she said, and closed the door with a snap.

As soon as Bucky was gone, Stevie flew into action. Gathering her best brushes, palettes, and reference sketches in a plastic bag, she left the hotel and ran to the nearest bus station. Glancing at the clock on her phone, she figured she had about three hours until sunrise. It would be tight, but it should be enough. She’d worked on tighter deadlines before, after all. 

After a quick visit to the closest nursery and hardware stores to pick up wide brushes, roller brushes, varnish, gloss, potted plants, rust remover, window cleaner, and permanent paint, Stevie made her way to Red Star Bakery. In the dark, the little place looked even shabbier and more forlorn than in the daylight. For a long moment, Stevie stood outside the door as she had that first day, back at the beginning of it all, and took it all in. 

Then, whipping out her brushes and popping open five cans of paint, she got to work.

She painted the outside a rich, beautiful blue. She painted stars beneath the awnings in bright, glorious spirals and streaks of light. She painted the trims a darker, richer blue, like the ocean on a clear night. The shutters and windowsills she painted a lighter blue for contrast, and the front door she polished and glossed to perfection. Working quickly but with care, she planted the glorious, bright and multi-colored potted plants in the hanging pots and in the troughs beneath the windowsills. 

Once the exterior was complete, Stevie moved inside. Using the key she’d lifted off Bucky back in her hotel room, she opened the door and stepped into the dark, abandoned bakery. The faint lingering smell of Saturday’s cookies hung in the stuffy air. Throwing open some windows for ventilation, Stevie got to work.

By the time she was done, the tables were polished and varnished, draped in summer-sky-blue table clothes. The dented chairs were fitted with little round pillows with frills and embroidered sayings of love and peace. Curtains, light and airy as a summer breeze, hung over the freshly washed windows. Murals sprawled, cheerful and bright, on every barren wall.

At 6:30AM, just as the sun was beginning to rise, Stevie slipped out the front door and returned to her hotel room. The rain had abated, thankfully—she’d been a bit worried about the drying paint on the outside of the building. Catching the first bus back, she made her way up ten flights of stairs and collapsed, exhausted but satisfied, onto the couch. 

The last thing she thought before she fell fast asleep was that the upholstery was scratchy as well as old.

She was awoken roughly three hours later by frantic knocking at her door. Groaning, she stood up and stumbled across the room. She threw open the door, blinking against the blinding light of the hallway beyond.

Bucky stepped through the door without waiting to be invited. She was grinning from ear to ear and looking one-hundred percent happier than she had just six hours before. She grabbed both of Stevie’s hands, squeezing them tight. “Stevie,” she said, her voice raucous as a crow’s. “You will not _believe_ what I found at the bakery this morning!”

Stevie blinked. She frowned, her thoughts muddled by lack of sleep. But then the events of the night before returned, and she stood up straight, blinking furiously. She opened her mouth to say something, to explain, but Bucky cut her off. 

“Someone painted the bakery, Stevie! Can you believe it? And not just that, they broke in and decorated the interior, too! Murals on the walls, pillows on the chairs…” Bucky looked like she wanted to go on, but stopped herself at the look on Stevie’s face. “What?” she asked, going from grinning to frowning in point-two seconds. “What’s wrong, Rogers? Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying?”

Stevie shook her head. She smiled, but even to herself, it felt forced. “Yeah,” she started to say, “It’s just—” but Bucky cut her off for a second time, clearly unable to suppress her excitement. 

“You have to come see it, Stevie. It’s _incredible._ Like one’a those European cafes you were telling me about.” Bucky helped herself to the couch, throwing herself down so hard the ancient springs groaned. She put her feet up on the coffee table and draped one arm over the back of the couch. Stevie watched her from the doorway, hoping she didn’t look as apprehensive as she felt. Now that it came to it, she wasn’t exactly sure how to explain to Bucky that she was the one who’d repainted the place. She didn’t know how to find the right words.

“That’s great, Buck,” she mumbled. Turning toward the kitchen, she added, “I’m gonna make coffee. You want some?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. As Stevie made her escape into the kitchen, Bucky continued to rant and rave about the new bakery. “One thing that was kinda weird is that they left a big piece of paper over the sign,” Bucky said. “I didn’t take it off. Didn’t wanna mess up the paint job, or anything, y’know?”

“Yeah,” said Stevie uncommittedly. “You want sugar or cream?”

“Lots of both,” said Bucky. “But here’s the thing, Stevie, I just can’t figure out who would care enough about that stupid bakery to…” She trailed off. Stevie waited, sure that her friend would go on in a second. But then the silence marched on, and she got a little worried.

With two cups of coffee in her hands, Stevie made her way back into the living room. 

She stopped dead. Bucky had gotten up and wandered over to the window where the minifridge sat, half-forgotten in the shadows. Stevie’s heart jolted when she saw that the fridge was open, its contents exposed for all (or just Bucky, but did anyone else matter?) to see. 

“Oh,” Bucky said. Her voice was soft. Almost sad. Like it had been back on the boardwalk by the bay. “So… you didn’t … I mean, you never…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly at nearly a month’s worth of untouched baked goods from Red Star Bakery. 

Panic reared in Stevie’s chest. For a moment, she couldn’t think of anything to say. Bucky looked so forlorn, so betrayed. The excitement she’d shown only seconds earlier seemed to have melted away like frost in summer heat. Finally, in an uncharacteristically small voice, Stevie managed to get out, “I’m allergic to wheat, Buck. But after that first day, I just thought… I mean, I didn’t want you to… I didn’t want you to think that I…” She trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

And then Bucky _laughed_. Not just a chuckle, but a full-on, body-shaking laugh that brought out the dimples in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. She laughed and laughed. Slamming the minifridge door, she moved across the living room until she stood chest-to-chest with Stevie, their bodies flush against each other. “Oh,” Bucky said. And then, “ _Oh_.”

“What?” Stevie frowned. She wasn’t sure what was happening—what had happened—but all these mood swings were giving her emotional vertigo. “Bucky, what—?”

“I’m a fuckin’ moron, Stevie,” said Bucky in a soft but intense voice. She reached out and took both Stevie’s hands again, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Her breath was warm on Stevie’s face as she leaned in, intoxicatingly close. “I’m a fuckin’ _idiot._ ”

“No, you’re not,” Stevie said firmly. “I am. I shoulda just told you, Buck, I’m sor—”

And then Bucky was kissing her, madly, passionately, deeply, like everything in the world could fall away if this moment stayed behind. She brought one hand up to Stevie’s cheek, thumb brushing over her cheekbone, tracing the beginnings of smile lines at the corners of her robin’s-egg eyes. She pulled back, clearly gauging Stevie’s reaction. Stevie grinned, and reached up to tangle one hand in Bucky’s thick dark hair. She brought their lips together again, once, twice, until there was nothing but the two of them in the whole wide world.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping with breathless elation, Stevie realized that she’d spilled their coffees all over the ugly hotel carpet. Bucky looked down and saw it too. She began to laugh. Stevie joined her, and they laughed until their sides hurt and they were falling into each other, helpless and weak-legged with relief and soaring joy. 

“Who cares,” Bucky said, before Stevie could recover enough to speak. “Fuck the carpet. Leave it to the historians with the upholstery.”

Stevie laughed, leaning into Bucky with her whole body. She shook her head, grinning so hard her face hurt. “You’re not mad?” she asked, hopeful and apprehensive in equal measure.

Bucky looked at her, confusion clear in her eyes, and then shook her head and laughed again. “About the minifridge full of weeks of my hard work going to waste?” She winked, mischief in her smile. “Nah, of course not! Why would I be mad about that?””

“You asshole.” Stevie elbowed her in the ribs, grinning. “You figured it out, then?”

Bucky pulled back. Her eyes traveled over Stevie’s face, searching. “Y’know,” she said, “I shoulda known the minute I saw it that it was you.” She put a hand on Stevie’s face, holding her like something priceless and precious. In a lower voice, husky with desire and sincerity, she added, “It’s _always_ been you.”

If it was up to Bucky, Stevie thought, they’d probably have spent the rest of that lazy Sunday rearranging the furniture in her shitty hotel room. Unfortunately, despite her own desires, Stevie had one last secret to reveal first. Taking Bucky by the hand, she picked up the spilled coffee cups and set them on the table, next to her sketch pad. “C’mon,” she said. “I wanna show you something.”

They reached the bakery at 9:45AM, just fifteen minutes before opening time. Stevie made Bucky stand back as she used a long paintbrush handle to push and peel back the painter’s paper covering what had formerly been the Red Star sign. “You ready?” she asked, poised to push the paper away.

Bucky stood on the sidewalk, squinting into the sun, and nodded. “Stop stalling, Rogers.”

The paper fell away. There, in place of the old name, was a new one: _Brooklyn Babes’ Buns and Cakes._

Bucky’s grin was so bright it could’ve powered the whole world for a month, Stevie thought. Setting the paint-stained paper strip aside, Stevie reached for Bucky as the girl who had stolen her heart strode toward her. They swept each other up in a breathtakingly passionate kiss. “I love it,” Bucky said between kisses, “and I love you.”

Stevie smiled into the kiss. Pulling back, she said, “I love you too, Buck.” It was the truest thing she’d ever said. Then, grinning, she added, “I love you so much I wanna help you make this place the best gluten-free bakery in all New York.”

Bucky nodded, pressing their foreheads together. “Maybe even the world?” she asked.

“Maybe even the world,” Stevie agreed.

Bucky took a step back. She reached for Stevie’s hand again, waving their fingers together like vines. “I just got one question for you,” she said. The sparkle was back in her eyes. “How the hell did you get inside this place last night?”

Grinning, Stevie produced the stolen key from the pocket of her leather jacket. “Lifted it off you when you were leaving my room,” she said.

Bucky laughed, surprised and elated. She shook her head. “You’re trouble, Rogers.”

“Back at ya, Barnes.”

Bucky leaned over and kissed her loudly on the cheek. “It’s perfect,” she said.

Stevie nodded. Then, with a cheeky smile, she added, “You, too.”

Bucky laughed. Stevie joined in, and together their voices soared high and bright as the sun. Hand in hand, they opened the door and stepped over the threshold into a new future full of possibility and love as sweet as (gluten-free) pecan pie.


End file.
